


The Death of Theon Greyjoy

by ironinfidel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blood, Other, weird afterlife shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironinfidel/pseuds/ironinfidel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The prayers had been said, the pyre built, and the crowd gathered. The only thing left to do now was die.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before Death

The prayers had been said, the pyre built, and the crowd gathered. The only thing left to do now was die. Theon considered the prospect from his place in the king's pavilion and felt only a strange sense of calm. He'd thought now that he had made his escape, become himself again, that he'd have fought against death with all the vigour he once had, but the feeling was not there. _At least I'll be out of this damnable cold, and the grasp of all these people who want me dead._ It was not long after the sounds of tools on wood and people chanting to R'hllor that he was fetched by two of Stannis' knights, who marched him out into the clearing in an iron grip, as if he would be able to make an escape if he had wanted to. The sight of the pyre gave Theon his first twinge of fear; he was no longer afraid of death, but _dying_ was a whole other matter, especially in such a gruesome fashion as this. But Theon Greyjoy was a son of the Iron Islands, and he would walk to his doom without so much as a crack in his composure.

The knights bound him to the stake, hand and foot, before hastily backing away. The crowd was a bit sparser than Theon had been expecting, but Stannis had lost so many of his men to the snows and the cold that he realized it was the majority of his remaining troops. From his position on high he could see the king, his face set in grim determination under the massive fur hood of his cloak; his knightly shadow, the one with the moths on his surcoat; the smiley blond knight, whom he had heard far too much about from his sister on the rare occasion she was permitted to see him; and finally, Asha herself, looking pale and sorrowful, as if she had begun to mourn him already. It was a look that few people would ever see on her face. Theon considered himself lucky to have seen it, though he lamented he would never be able to tease her about it. _Maybe in the Drowned God's watery halls, if we're lucky._ The king's squire handed Stannis a burning brand, and he touched it to the kindling piled beneath Theon's feet. The fire began slowly at first, making its way lazily towards its victim, but as it grew, it began to race towards him. The heat was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the actual burning. Theon screamed himself raw; he could feel blood in his mouth and in his throat, and dimly he wondered if it was from the fire or the screams. The agony eventually became too much for him, and he lost consciousness. The last thing he remembered was his sister's face.


	2. After Life

He awoke to a silvery sky above him and grass beneath. Immediately he sat up, wondering if he had only dreamt everything that had happened, the war, his return to Pyke, the sack of Winterfell, Reek, his capture by Stannis, his death. Maybe he was awakening from a particularly long nap in Winterfell's godswood, surrounded by the trees and the old gods. But this was not the godswood. There was a thick wood behind him, but he was on the shore of a small lake, and the sky had never been so big in the godswood, where the trees had grown together for thousands of years to form a leafy canopy so dense that scarcely any light reached the ground.

Theon stood and walked to the edge of the water and looked into it. Gazing back at him was his face as he remembered it; young and handsome, his hair black and his smile white and complete. His fingers had reappeared, his limp vanished with the return of his toes. Gone was the old toothless man he had become under the Bastard of Bolton, and the transformation made him grin at the version of himself in the lake.

He wondered where he was; this place felt like the north, all grey skies and rocky meadows and tall pines, but was no place he had ever been to. _I can't have died, I'm not with the Drowned God. I wouldn't be lying around in some field like a drunken swineherd._ Theon considered leaving to explore, but he didn't know which way to go. The field stretched out to the horizon in front of him, beyond the lake, to his left, and to his right. Behind him was only the forest. There were no signs of any other people or any animals, for that matter; no homes, no farms, no castles, no roads. There were no birds in the sky, fish in the lake, or deer leaping through the field. Theon was completely and utterly alone and completely and utterly lost.

“Where am I?” he asked himself, aloud because there was no one there to answer. “How do I get home?” He didn't know if he meant back to his patch of floor in Stannis' tent, to Winterfell, or to Pyke.

But in answer to his questions, a thin trail appeared before him, no true road, but a track worn into the grass by years of travel by foot. It took a meandering path through the meadow to the forest behind him, and apprehensively he followed it. Despite the fact that he could see its conclusion in the distance and could take a more direct route, Theon followed every curve and bend in the track until it reached the edge of the wood. The path ended where the trees began, but as Theon made his way deeper into the brush it became clear that the trees were clustered together too tightly for him to go any direction but forward. Theon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he considered the unnatural forest, but he continued to walk as if compelled to.

He felt as though he wandered through the woods for days, but he never became hungry or tired, and through the branches of the trees he noted that the sun never set and the sky never changed, remaining covered in the grey clouds he had come to know meant snow, though of course that never came either. Theon was not much of one for study or reading, but he was smart enough to know that he was not in any part of his world, or that he was in some sorcerer's thrall. The tree-road finally emerged in a small clearing, perfectly square, like a courtyard in the forest. As he stepped from the wood into the clearing, the trees shifted to close the path, sealing him there. 

“I have had enough of your tricks!” he cried, as it became apparent that he was trapped in the clearing. “Show yourself to me, coward!” The trees did not deign to answer. 

He shouted for answers again and again, until he had shouted so much that his voice left him entirely, and he sat on the ground in resignation, waiting for something to happen. Again the waiting was interminable, and the world still remained eerily still, but Theon remained where he was, determined to outlast whatever force was holding him there.

Eventually, after an interval of time that would have broken most men, something happened. It began small, with a light breeze ruffling the grass and through Theon's hair. The wind pushed the clouds from the sky and the courtyard was suddenly alive with sunlight, and Theon welcomed the feel of it on his face. The wind continued to blow, stronger now, and then, in the centre of the courtyard, a plant pushed through the grass. It grew at an alarming speed, first a mere sprout, then quickly a sapling, and faster and faster until Theon was staring at an ancient tree, an ancient tree with a white trunk, red leaves, and a carved face. He immediately understood where he was, even before the tree spoke to him.

_“Theon of the House Greyjoy.”_ The tree's mouth did not move, but spoke directly inside his head in a chorus of voices of all kinds; men, women, children, and a musical timbre he instinctually knew were the voices of the children of the forest.

“I am Theon Greyjoy,” he responded, hoping that he did not sound afraid.

_“Yes, we know. We know much about you, Theon.”_

The old gods said no more, and Theon realized he would have to ask the questions to get the answers.

“Where am I?”

_“You are in the afterworld.”_

“So I _am_ dead.”

_“Yes.”_

“But why am I here? I'm not one of yours, I'm supposed to be feasting with the Drowned God.” _Or facing the wrath of the Storm God,_ he added silently.

_“You asked a boon of us once, ironman. We granted it to you, and you are now ours.”_

Theon was lost. He had prayed from time to time in Winterfell's godswood, he knew, but never fervently, and he certainly didn't recall any answered prayers.

_“You do not recall,”_ said the tree, _“but the north remembers, and us most of all. You once begged of us to let you die, and to die as Theon Greyjoy.”_

He felt a shock of remembrance at the gods' words; remembered kneeling before the weirwood at Winterfell after Ramsay's wedding to the fake Arya, clasping his maimed hands together in desperation. 

“But why did you listen to me? Ned Stark prayed to you every day and you let Joffrey cut his head off. You let Robb be massacred at his uncle's wedding with hundreds of other northmen. You let Sansa be held hostage in King's Landing and now she's vanished, Arya, the real Arya, has been missing for months, and you let me take Winterfell and send Bran and Rickon out into the wild with just that wilding woman and the half-wit! Why did you answer my prayers when surely anyone of those people should have earned your favours instead?”

The gods did not speak, but instead the Starks appeared in front of it, one by one, staring at Theon with hollow, cold eyes. Unlike Theon, they did not seem to have arrived in perfect condition with their wounds healed and youth restored. Lord Eddard's head was on his shoulders again, but with a gaping wound running the entire way around his neck, pouring blood onto his white-and-grey tunic. Lady Catelyn stood next to him, her own throat slashed open, and her face and scalp covered in long, deep scratches. Theon's stomach dropped as Robb appeared, wearing his bronze-and-iron crown, bleeding around several quarrels and from a sword thrust to the heart. Grey Wind sat next to him, his fur matted with mud and blood. Then came Sansa, taller than he remembered, but with angry welts and dark bruises all along her bare arms and over her pretty face. She kept her hand on Lady's head. He supposed the girl next to her was Arya, but her face was so brutalized it no longer looked like the little girl he had known. Bran sat on the ground with his wolf, looking even sicklier than he had after his fall. His hair was going white and brittle like Theon's own had, and his eyes were red. Rickon and Shaggydog both looked like they had been savaged by something huge and vicious. Lastly came Jon Snow, looking even more like Lord Eddard than ever, covered in wounds from half a dozen different blades. All eight of them stood there, staring at Theon with silent accusation, the only sound the irregular patter of blood on the leafy carpet of the forest.

“This doesn't answer my question at all!” he shouted at the tree, at the old gods.

_“It does,”_ replied the tree, cryptically.

“It does not! I don't understand!”

The gods and the Starks simply continued to stare at him. Theon tried to think of how showing him a bunch of dead Starks was answering his question, but he was too angry to think straight.

“You wanted to show me how many of your own precious Starks you would let die? Fine, I see that you killed them all! Now let me go to where I'm supposed to be!”

_“You are where you are supposed to be.”_

“Why? You still haven't explained to me why! I don't worship trees! I am ironborn and the Drowned God is my god!”

_“You are where you are supposed to be.”_

“This is not where I am supposed to be! Surrounded by my dead captors and an infuriating tree? This is no afterlife I want to be a part of!”

_“The Starks were not only your captors, Theon Greyjoy. They were also your victims, your friends, your allies, and your family.”_

“My family? I was their prisoner, a hostage to keep my real father from making trouble! I'm a Greyjoy of Pyke, not some greenlands lordling!”

_“It is difficult to lie to the gods.”_

“What? No, I'm not lying. I'm a Greyjoy, you said so yourselves.”

_“One's tongue and one's heart can speak different words.”_

Theon resisted the urge to scream. The old gods' refusal to speak clearly was intensely frustrating to him, and he resented their knowledge of his innermost feelings. Perhaps he had always wanted to be a Stark, but it was impossible, the fantasy of a young boy with a cruel father, a sickly mother, and a crop of older, more impressive siblings. He had put that dream aside a long time ago, and when the time came, he had made his choice. _But you always regretted it,_ interjected a small voice inside him, and he knew this one was his own, and not the gods'. _You should have warned Robb, you shouldn't have sacked his castle and killed his brothers. Maybe if you hadn't he'd still be king and you would sit at his right hand._

“I didn't kill Robb! I didn't kill Bran or Rickon either, I know they got away!” _Two small boys in the wilderness of the north? They are surely dead. You have seen them here._

“But they're the only ones I can be blamed for! I had nothing to do with the others! Am I just here to take the blame for all of their deaths? Fine, I killed them. I killed the Starks, and I suppose I will be trapped in this fucking forest forever, watching them judge me.”

_“That is not the reason you are here."_

“Then what is it? Please, just tell me! I can't take this forever.”

There was a long pause, and Theon assumed the gods were going to let him languish in his pain once more when they spoke again.

_“You were not brought here to stand trial for the deaths of the Starks. No, that blame does not lie solely on any one man; there is blood on many hands. You are here to face yourself and to make amends.”_

“How can I make amends? They're dead and their shades aren't...like mine. Can they even hear me?”

_“They can.”_

Theon gathered his thoughts as he looked at the family before him. He tried to remember each betrayal, no matter how trivial, as to be thorough and free his soul from this woodland prison. It was a long time before he took a knee before the line of figures and their weirwood protector and began.

“My lords and ladies of Stark. Your Grace. I have come before you and your gods to seek forgiveness for all I have done while I lived. For my insolence, for sneaking whores into the castle, for knocking Old Nan down the stairs, for teasing the young ones, for kicking that deserter's head. But mostly for my treachery. Robb was more of a brother to me than those of my blood, and though I am no Stark, Winterfell was my home. I was blinded by pride and ambition, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry for taking the castle and killing your men and those miller's boys and for Bran and Rickon.” Theon brushed the tears that were starting to fall from his face with the back of a hand. “I'm sorry for betraying your trust, Robb, and for causing you such grief, my lady. If I lived again I would change it all, but it is too late for that. I only hope you and your gods can find some forgiveness for me. I...I'm sorry. I was wrong and stupid and I'm just so sorry.” 

He realized his plea was beginning to trail off into nothing but weeping and begging and took a deep breath to steady himself. He looked up at the line of people in front of him and noticed some of the figures had faded; Lord Eddard, Arya, and Rickon were gone entirely, and Sansa and Bran were translucent in the sunlight. Only Lady Catelyn and Robb stood firm and solid. Theon was at a loss on how to continue; he was full of guilt, remorse, and despair, but lacked the words to express it to these ghostly representations of his lady and his king.

“I don't know what I can do to make amends with you, Your Grace. I am dead and have nothing to offer you besides my words, and words are wind. I would give you my gold, my titles, my life, to finish this, but here I have none of those things. I am simply begging you to please extend some kindness to a young man who made a lot of foolish mistakes. Saying the words doesn't undo the deeds, but my intentions are pure. Just...please. Don't leave me here forever.”

He hung his head as he waited, not daring to look to see if they were all still watching him, hoping against hope that he had completed the old gods' task for him and they'd let him have his proper rest. But the voice that spoke next wasn't the tree's, and it wasn't his own.

“On your feet, Greyjoy.”

Theon would recognize that voice anywhere; he looked up to see Robb standing over him, his hand extended to pull him up. He took it, tentatively, and stood up, eye to eye with his friend and king once again. They stood silently for a moment until Robb knocked him back off of his feet with a punch. 

“I deserved that,” Theon said, standing up once more.

“Yes, you did,” agreed Robb. “But there will be more than enough time to settle any lasting disputes.”

“What do you mean? I thought now that the old gods are done with me I'd be down to the Drowned God or just...dead.”

“The Starks of Winterfell always come to the realm of the old gods after death.”

“I'm not a Stark,” Theon said, puzzled.

“Are you my brother, now and always?” Robb asked, and Theon felt a flicker of understanding.

“Now and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's confused, no, the living Starks aren't actually supposed to be dead; it's just what Theon's inferring from the old gods' suggestions. Also, I'm sorry for the absolute overkill on the italics in this one.


End file.
